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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773724">for the moon never beams (without bringing me dreams)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/inakingdombythesilversea/pseuds/inakingdombythesilversea'>inakingdombythesilversea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Inception AU, M/M, also some mosaic fluff - as a treat, and a fan of Tenderness, because i am garbage, in which the author selectively grabs canon elements of seasons 4/5 and adds a twist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:49:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/inakingdombythesilversea/pseuds/inakingdombythesilversea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eliot takes a leap of faith and, just this once, gets to be brave, the hero of his own story (or a season 4/5 fix-it fic).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He comes to gasping, as if someone had tied a rope around his ankle and yanked. As if coming out of a dream. Or is he still in a dream? For a moment, all he can sense in his hazy state are the evergreen branches he sees from his sprawl on a forest floor, and as a flock of birds caw maddeningly across the ashen sky he thinks for a startling moment that his subconscious has flung him, in some final burst of self-preservation, into a memory of mosaic Fillory. But then, he was never wounded in Fillory. He doesn’t remember the feeling of sticky blood on his hands as they feebly twitch on his stomach.</p>
<p>What follows could be minutes, could be days, stitched together fragments of moments. Margo cradling his face while simultaneously screaming and sobbing. The sensation of traveling. Hasty heels on linoleum. Lipson’s concerned face. Panicked arguing. And then darkness.</p>
<p>For one heartstopping breath, he thinks he <i>must</i> be dreaming, because just before slipping under one final time, he swears he feels a coarse, masculine hand tenderly stroking back his hair, a hand he’s known in every version of reality that has ever mattered, accompanied by a shaky soft voice he thought he’d never get to hear again, a voice achy with emotion that whispers like some forgotten prayer in his ear -  “sweetheart, please - please just - <i>stay</i> with me. I’m coming back for you.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>He knows it was a dream when Quentin does not come back.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>Fillory is fucked. If he were a writer, he might find this delightfully poetic in a detached sort of sense. But if he thinks too hard and imagines how Quentin might excitedly point to the alliteration and launch into a discussion of the irony of that thought given the lascivious nature of the gods, he knows such musings can only be naturally followed by an entire bottle of vodka, and he really doesn’t want to debase himself by making cheap college pre-game alcohol his new hobby. Besides, there’s no time for him to wallow. Fillory’s fucked. Earth is fucked. The whole damn universe seems to have gone to shit. And his friends need him.</p>
<p><i>But what’s the use of saving Fillory if Quentin isn’t there to see it?</i> a part of him wonders. <i>What’s the point of saving magic when Quentin is no longer here to remind him how beautiful magic can be? And why should they risk their lives to save what has only ever taken from them?</i> </p>
<p>It’s always been people he’s cared most about. Discovering he had magic may have saved him to some degree in the beginning, but he’s only truly felt like he belonged, like he had a purpose, like he could really be happy, because of Margo, Quentin - hell, the whole lot of them. When he thinks of home, it’s not his bed in the Physical Cottage or the turrets of Whitespire that he imagines - it’s Margo curled up against his side on the plush mahogany couch in the corner of the common room, it’s standing in the throne room with Margo and Fen by his side, feeling for the first time that it’s because of his broken little pieces and complicated past in the muck of Indiana that he can actually really <i>help</i> people, do something with his life that <i>means</i> something. </p>
<p>Most importantly, home to him is - it’s a kaleidoscope of colorful chalk streaked across his hands and under his fingernails. It’s the taste of carrot wine on his lips and literal stars and constellations in his eyes and the feel of dewy grass beneath him and a warm hand in his. It’s the sound of a viol and drumming beat from some Fillorian dance tune as he attempts to follow the intricate footwork of the festival revelers around him, with an armful of laughing Quentin teasing him and drunkenly singing out-of-tune Taylor Swift lyrics to the melody enveloping them until Eliot finally gives up and gives in to shutting him up with a kiss, placing a possessive hand on his neck, his thumb stroking that spot near his ear that makes Quentin immediately slacken in his arms every time. It’s Teddy crawling onto the day bed on a particularly blissful summer evening and choosing to curl into his chest, a sleepy <i>goodnight papa</i> muffled into his neck, tiny hands clutching the fabric of his sleep shirt, a ruffled <i>oof</i> from Quentin as Teddy accidentally kicks his stomach in moving further into Eliot’s embrace, Eliot’s answering rumbling chuckle as he reaches his arm out to bring both of his boys closer and just breathes, listening to the chirping cicadas for a bit before he inevitably needs to put Teddy to bed for real.</p>
<p>It’s waking up every morning to the sight of messy bed head and a soft body burrowed into his chest, and the overwhelming joy that he gets to have <i>this</i> - that somehow despite all of his fuck-ups and stumbles through life he gets this gift - the soft little snuffle of Quentin awakening, eyes blearily opening, head lifting, eyes alighting and growing tender as the sunlight seeps through the cracks in the chipped paint of the shutters, a hand slipping up between them to tug his curls playfully, a whispered <i>g’morning</i> in the space between their lips before Quentin sinks back into him. It’s the miracle that Eliot gets to kiss him like this, and that Quentin kisses him back, a leg wedging between his, the hand in his hair tightening as he changes the slant of his lips and licks into Quentin’s mouth, the answering gasp as he’s gripped closer, until he has no way of knowing where he ends and Quentin begins, and never wants to find out...</p>
<p>So Fillory is fucked. And they’re going to do their damnedest to save it because it matters to them, and it mattered to Quentin. But he refuses to lose any more people than he already has in the process. At what point will he lose enough people he starts losing himself?<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>They find magical stamps that can send mail to anyone, anywhere, in any time, and the idea that clings to him and refuses to let him go, even with the chaos he and Margo should really be focusing on, is that he <i>has</i> to send a letter to Quentin. He doesn’t know how it could help - from the way that Alice talks about that day in the Seam, it seems like there was no way Penny could have saved him, and he’s not even sure if anything he could say to Quentin would mean enough to make him change his mind about going. He knows he lost that right to hope when he left him sitting on the marble floor of Whitespire, a half-eaten peach in his hand and memories of a forgotten life stomped underfoot. Even so, a selfish part of him <i>needs</i> Quentin to know, <i>needs</i> him to understand how much of a fool he was, how everything he has done since then has been for him.</p>
<p>He writes it all down, his insides gutted out and sprawled in messy ink across precious pieces of parchment, words in all their mangled, gnarly truth, words he simultaneously thought would never see the light of day and that he’s been desperate to speak out loud for longer than he’d willingly admit.</p>
<p>But perhaps more important than Quentin knowing how he feels, he doesn’t want Quentin to live out of some misconstrued guilt or obligation toward him and his stupid feelings, he needs Quentin to want to live for <i>himself</i>. So he takes a deep breath, pulls himself together, and folds up that letter, writing a new one, one that he hopes conveys to Quentin how his friends see him, how <i>he</i> has always seen him. How they all need his empathy, his passion, his awe at the hidden magic in the world more than ever. How much he matters to all of them. How much they all need him to live.</p>
<p>He hesitates, and adds a postscript, trying to boil down his emotions to a few lines. <i>I lied. That day. I’m so sorry for making you feel like that life didn’t exist, didn’t matter, that we didn’t choose it. I’m so glad it was you and me at that mosaic. I would have chosen it for fifty more years if it meant I got to keep you.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>I know I missed my chance, and everything’s a mess, but I’m fighting to get back to you. And...if I haven’t missed it, I have so much I need to tell you. Please don’t make me wait another fifty years to say it to your face.</i>
</p>
<p>He seals the letter in an envelope with the magic stamp, addressed to Quentin before he goes to the Seam, and tucks it with his folded slip of words into his pocket. He never mails it.</p>
<p>Instead, he spells it and drops it down the well to the Underworld with Alice. It feels like closure, some sort of closure he was desperately seeking but that doesn’t quite envelop all his grief. But it’s enough for now. He needs to focus on being there for his friends. As Alice turns and begins their hike back, he pauses, looking down the well one more time. Shakily pulling out the creased paper, the letter that never was, he stands there in indecision before taking a deep breath and, on the exhale, letting it slip from his fingers and float down into the well too. He knows he will never get to say those words to Quentin, so this will have to do - the feeble comfort that he at least tried, that someone somewhere might read the words and know that Eliot Waugh once wanted a boy to know that loving him was the truest thing he had ever done.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>“Never in my life did I ever think I would actually say this, but Merry Christmas bitches, time to open some motherfucking presents from Santa. <i>God</i> what even is my life.” Margo rolls her eyes and starts passing out presents. It really is a bit ridiculous, all of them, grown-ass adults, sitting cross-legged in their pajamas on the penthouse floor, opening presents like they’re not about to go on a potentially dangerous mission to destroy Fillory and casually create an entirely new world from some weird seed. But, you know, Eliot’s seen weirder stuff in his day, so really this is actually quite nice. All of them. Together. Laughing and drinking their morning coffee. Fen excitedly brandishing a set of new knives and proceeding to flourish them like swords, clearly frightening Josh to a delightful degree as one twirls very close to his face. It’s almost...normal.</p>
<p>Eliot looks down at the small package that has just appeared in his lap and rips the wrapping, opening the box to reveal a tarnished gold bracelet nestled in paper. It looks almost like something he would have found in a Fillorian flea market centuries ago, especially with the engraved floral pattern that he can’t quite place in his memory. As he slips it out of the box, a crumpled paper floats down, and he hastily snatches it up before anyone can notice to take a look and it’s -</p>
<p>- it’s a poem. Looking as if it had been a brashly-ripped page from a book (Quentin would have hated that), and he finds himself blessing his english/theater double major that allows him to recognize it’s part of an Edgar Allen Poe poem:</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Take this kiss upon the brow!<br/>
And, in parting from you now,<br/>
Thus much let me avow -<br/>
You are not wrong, who deem<br/>
That my days have been a dream;<br/>
Yet if hope has flown away<br/>
In a night, or in a day,<br/>
In a vision, or in none,<br/>
Is it therefore the less gone?<br/>
All that we see or seem<br/>
Is but a dream within a dream.</i>
  </p>
</div><p>Scrawled across the bottom of the paper is a barely legible message - <i>for when hope has flown away. you are not alone.</i> Eliot stares at the words, then back at the bracelet, then back at the words, but he remains at a loss. True, it’s a bit unsettling that Santa seems to have somehow divined that he did a research project back in undergrad on Edgar Allen Poe, even though he can’t remember telling a single soul this fact. But he’s not sure what it all means. He turns the page to find more poetry, words he remembers even more vividly from his college days. Someone has underlined phrases throughout - <i>she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me</i> - the <i>s</i> in she accidentally scratched out, and - <i>we loved with a love that was more than love</i> - and the emotion constricts his heart like a vice. His mind unhelpfully supplies him with an image of an earnest-eyed Quentin, seemingly ages ago, tentatively yet so bravely offering up those words, <i>proof of concept</i>, on that throne room floor, and he <i>aches</i>. But what unsettles him even more is that the words on the page fundamentally rattle him somehow, as if he’s missing some bigger piece of a puzzle he didn’t even know he was playing. He hurriedly folds the paper up and places it with the bracelet back in the box, affecting an air of nonchalance before glancing up to focus on the gifts his friends have received.</p>
<p>He hasn’t quite fooled Alice. She’s regarding him curiously, and he shoots her a small smile as he places the box in his coat pocket.</p>
<p>“What did you get?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Oh...a bracelet.” He shrugs. “Never really was one for arm jewelry.”</p>
<p>Alice’s expression seems to abruptly cloud over, and she flicks a surreptitious glance at Margo, but Eliot has already turned away before he can think to analyze it. He wants to enjoy these moments with his friends for as long as he can before the universe decides to throw its next tantrum. Which, as it happens, is less than a minute later.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>One moment, the gang is chanting around the world seed as it finally cracks open. The next, he’s blown back - literally, or figuratively he’s not sure, since all he hears is a startled cry of <i>Eliot!</i> from Margo before the light pouring from the seed blinds him.</p>
<p>When he next opens his eyes, he’s - he’s still at Brakebills. Everything, everyone is... gone. Just gone. As if nothing was ever even there in the first place. He’s left staring dumbly at the textured glass windows, only the creaking sound of the hardwood floor following him as he strides out, hand shaking as it clasps the doorknob. Time for that drink. Clearly this is the reality he deserves.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>He’s a professor now. He doesn’t know how the fuck he got to this point, where he would be standing in front of students who would look up to him for some reason and eat up his words in an entirely unsexy context, where he was somehow seen as an authority figure. Then again, there was only so long he could try to become one with the Physical Cottage armchair before Fogg finally stormed in and got him up off his ass doing something “useful.” And it’s really not so bad. He actually kind of enjoys teaching these kids, seeing their eyes light up when they figure out just the right arch of their fingers that gets their textbook to fly across the room, moderating particularly impassioned debates in his advanced telekinetic theory seminar. It feels fulfilling. It distracts him from remembering that he’s going back at the end of the day to the now quiet Cottage, with only Charlton and some randoms to make cocktails for. He’s still wrapping his head around the fact that somehow Charlton was able to jump ship from his brain after the monster left to just...possess a Brakebills kid. But at least it gives him an anchor, someone he knows. A willing mind and body to rant at or kiss detachedly when he’s feeling particularly bored or hollowed out. When he needs to forget that every once in a while, he looks out the window and swears he sees Teddy running through the patch of tall grass on the lawn, or someone with mousy Quentin hair laughing, head thrown back, near the barbecue. He’s not sure if he can handle these haunting, fractured fragments of his past that seem to encroach even on his everyday reality.</p>
<p>But it’s impossible to escape the memories, his overwhelmingly messy <i>feelings</i>, when they wash over him in the night, as he drifts to sleep...</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>“Q!”</p>
<p>The rickety door creaks open and hits the earthen wall with a bang, startling Quentin enough for the peach in his hand to leap into the air and start rolling off the table. Quentin levels him with an exasperatedly fond stare as Eliot simply reaches for the peach with his telekinesis and promptly takes a playful bite, juice leaking onto his hand. Part of him is distracted enough by Quentin’s soft look that he almost wants to stroll to his side, wants to watch him take his own bite of the peach, wants to draw him into his chest and align their hips just so and see his eyes blow wide and hear the little soft gasp he can’t hide every time, wants to sink forward to taste from his lips what he knows would be distinctly peachy and indescribably <i>Quentin</i>, he just - he <i>wants</i>. Most of all, he wants the indisputable reminder that this is real, that Quentin is here in his arms and wants this, <i>chooses</i> this, that just maybe, he might even l-</p>
<p>- he shakes his head. That’s a mental spiral for another day. And he can compartmentalize. He can’t let this idea escape. So instead -</p>
<p>“Q! Q q q q q -”</p>
<p>“Oh my <i>god</i>, El, <i>what</i>?” Quentin laughs, leaning comfortably against the kitchen table, rolling up his work-worn shirtsleeves to cross tanned arms across his chest and watch as Eliot rushes forward and begins pacing in front of their cooking pot.</p>
<p>“Quentin, <i>Quentin</i>, humor me darling, I just came up with a brilliant idea and Margo isn’t here to be my hype man, so I need you to fill her esteemed shoes.”</p>
<p>“...Dare I point out that Margo is, in fact, a woman and -”</p>
<p>“- <i>no you may not.</i>” Quentin waggles his eyebrows and Eliot resists the urge to do something ridiculous like wipe that stupid grin off his face with a nose kiss or something equally embarrassing, instead laughing and tossing the peach at Quentin in retaliation just to watch him flail before continuing.</p>
<p>“Do you remember how I was working on designing telekinetically-adaptable temporal interdimensional portals for my thesis?”</p>
<p>“Your time machine Star Trek transporter thing -”</p>
<p>“- they’re <i>interdimensional portals</i>, Quentin, I -”</p>
<p>“- are you going to <i>beam me up Scotty</i> -”</p>
<p>“- how <i>dare</i> you suggest such blasphemy under this roof.” He can’t help but grin and finally give into the temptation to slide forward into Quentin’s space, placing hands on the table behind to effectively trap him in his arms, running his thumb absently over the divot in the wood where Quentin had accidentally dropped a pile of tiles while he was building it three summers ago. Eliot suddenly realizes his mistake, because this close to Q he can see the flecks of lighter hazel in his dark eyes, can become easily sidetracked by the small lock of hair that has escaped his ponytail and by the adorable crinkles at his eyes as he has the audacity to giggle in Eliot’s face before attempting to school his features into apparent innocence.</p>
<p>“....well what are you going to do about it?” He whispers, an offering in the breath of space between them.</p>
<p>And how is Eliot to do anything else but succumb and give Quentin Coldwater anything, <i>everything</i> he wants? After a long moment, he smoothly moves a hand to grip at his hip and guide him slightly forward, his eyes falling closed on instinct as he leans in and his lips -</p>
<p>- touch peach fuzz. Quentin has taken a bite from the peach. He blinks in shock, and Quentin takes the opportunity to give him a too-short peck on the lips and slip out from his arms to go check on the dinner pot. Eliot laughs, following him to place a tender kiss at the nape of his neck, whispering back “<i>idiot</i>” as a feeble retaliation. <i>My idiot.</i></p>
<p>"You were saying about your portals, El?”</p>
<p>Eliot sighs, making sure his breath fans out over his neck so he can feel the answering shiver through Quentin before shaking his head and moving away, collecting his thoughts. Temporal interdimensional portals. Right. <i>Right</i> -</p>
<p>“Yes, of course, <i>Quentin</i>, I just realized - the spell I’ve been developing needs ingredients from the time to which you want to travel - the more personal your association to those items, and the more specific to a year or time they all are the better - but if...if I were to make those ingredients specific to the relationship between a particular person and the caster instead, and include an infusion of lavender and valerian oils I think...I think I could tweak the circumstances of the spell to portal...into someone’s <i>dreamscape</i>.”</p>
<p>Quentin freezes and turns around. “Wait, what? But how are those two connected?”</p>
<p>“I mean, it’s all in how you think about time. I was procrastinating so much on my thesis research when we were at Brakebills because I wasn’t having much success - it’s very difficult to pinpoint a specific month or even year of time to portal to - and I know what you’re thinking, don’t worry your pretty little head, I only tried to send some of Todd’s things into the portals -"</p>
<p>“You <i>what</i> -”</p>
<p>“- a <i>worthy sacrifice</i> to an important cause - anyway, when you’re dreaming, time runs longer than in reality, so what if instead I just...portaled there? Then I would only need ingredients that would anchor the caster to the mind of the person who would be dreaming.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t this be kind of like traveling though?”</p>
<p>“Ah, no - see, that’s the beauty of it. Because if Penny were to travel into someone’s mind, he would merely be an observer in the space, and the subject would know he was in their mind - but with this spell, being linked to the dreamer means that you aren’t just a visitor anymore, you...you become <i>part</i> of their dream world. It becomes malleable. You can <i>influence</i> it, <i>shape</i> it.”</p>
<p>He’s met with silence for a few moments, Quentin staring wide-eyed at him for a moment, lips parted before he finally responds. “Did...El, did you just...invent a new field of telekinetic theory? Like...right now?”</p>
<p>“I mean, <i>no</i>, I started thinking about this like an hour ago because I was wishing I could teleport somewhere where I could air condition my goddamn brain and be able to focus on mosaic patterns -”</p>
<p>“Holy shit, El, you literally just came up with Inception.”</p>
<p>“Well, I mean, I was thinking of it not so much as a 'trick you to dismantle your entire business empire' kind of tool - though now that I think about it, it might be fun to take a stab at Bezos - but I was imagining it more as something that could...help people. I mean, if it was treated carefully, it might even be a therapy aid? I don’t know... And of course none of this is realistic until I can figure out what kind of energy output would be needed when doing a spell in the dream world to kick you back out into the real world - and are there even limits to the energy you can use for magic in there? Like, would someone still Niffin-out if they did the Rhinemann Ultra...” </p>
<p>He knows he’s rambling now in a disconcertingly Quentin-like fashion - clearly a sign he needs to get out more - but Quentin hasn’t interrupted him at all, which is fairly uncharacteristic, and he’s suddenly inexplicably worried that he’s revealed a ridiculously impossible flight of fancy and somehow fallen short in his estimation. And while he may have been someone who constantly sought attention and praise in his time at Brakebills, there’s always been something about Quentin that’s made him want to feel fundamentally worthy of his gaze and his smiles. Besides Margo, only Quentin has ever made him want to peel away the precisely-constructed layers of Eliot Waugh, with his pressed button-downs and polished oxfords and work-averse image of <i>joi de vivre</i>, and reveal all the hidden cracks and chips in the facade, reveal the secret part of him that has always cared about magic and wanted to overcome his past, wanted to learn how to do good with it, wanted to <i>be</i> more than people expect from him...</p>
<p>But when he finally glances at Quentin to gauge his reaction, he realizes that Quentin is still slack-jawed, walking trance-like forward to where Eliot has been pacing and wildly gesticulating. His eyes are weighty and unreadable, and Eliot doesn’t know what to do with everything he’s suddenly feeling, nervously flitting his gaze around the cottage before recovering with a smirk.</p>
<p>“...this is fulfilling every one of your little nerd fantasies isn’t it,” he states matter-of-factly, delighting in how quickly Quentin reddens, a hand running through his hair to pull that stray strand back in a nervous gesture as he continues to approach. And yet, rather than being distracted by the flirtation, Quentin still remains silent, looking at Eliot more thoughtfully until he seems to suddenly find something, and his eyes immediately soften somehow further.</p>
<p>“You don’t even realize how incredible you are, do you El.” He’s whispering now, a small smile quirking his lips as he tilts his head. He reaches up a hand to easily cup his cheek and lightly scratch the five-o’clock shadow growing there. Of course Quentin sees straight through him. Eliot suddenly feels incredibly vulnerable, like he’s about to combust with feeling, not knowing what else to do but to instinctively lean into the hand on his cheek, press a kiss to the palm. In a moment of utmost sincerity, a quiet confession slips out unbidden.</p>
<p>“I’ve only ever felt spectacular with you.” Quentin chokes out a little laugh, hearing his own words from their coronation so long ago, eyes gleaming in the fading natural light as he noses forward and presses their lips together ever so gently.</p>
<p>He tries to pour all his jumbled, half-formed thoughts into the kiss. <i>I don’t think I’ve done nearly enough in my life to deserve you, but you make me want to try. You mean more to me than you could ever imagine.</i></p>
<p>His kiss is a sacred confessional for all the desperate emotion bottled inside that he’s too afraid to speak out loud. It feels disproportionate to the compliment Quentin has just bestowed, all the complicated feelings whirring through him, but he knows no other way to express the sheer magnitude of it all but through this - a delicate brush of lips. A hand caressing his waist. A hand sliding up into Quentin’s hair and gently stroking. His arms wrapping tightly around Quentin when he ultimately pulls away just to hug him. A soft kiss pressed to the top of the shorter man’s head as they simply stand there wrapped around each other in the twilight, the last feeble rays of sunlight drifting through the kitchen window.</p>
<p>Quentin presses a barely-there kiss to the center of his chest - most likely something he meant to go unnoticed, but that Eliot feels to his very core - and looks up, resting his chin on Eliot’s chest with a small smile.</p>
<p>“You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know.” Eliot shrugs slightly, unable to help a weak smile and responding by squeezing him closer.</p>
<p>He feels the loss as Quentin starts to pull away, but Quentin must somehow sense his reticence, as he briefly goes up on his tiptoes to press a smacking kiss to the hollow of his throat and then slips away.</p>
<p>“Come El, I’m going to get dinner ready, if it hasn’t burned already -”</p>
<p>“Baby, I think that comes with the territory -”</p>
<p>“Hey, don’t bite the hand that feeds you -”</p>
<p>“I would be happy to put my biting techniques to better use -”</p>
<p>“<i>Eliot.</i>” Quentin lets out an exasperated laugh, playfully brandishing the wooden spoon he now holds for a moment, before turning back to the dinner preparation. “Tell me more about these dream portals, El, this is actually so cool, like - it’s a really clever loophole to the time travel theory, and I think it could really work...actually, you know, you mentioned lavender and valerian, and I was thinking maybe it also might be good to include some sandalwood oil in the mix? I just remember, Julia was on an all-natural remedy kick a couple of years back to try to help with my insomnia, and I remember she gave me some stuff to read that said that sandalwood can supposedly have a sedative effect and, you know, reduce wakefulness, which might be useful for keeping the dreamer and the caster in the dream with less of a risk of them accidentally waking, and…”</p>
<p>Eliot sits down at the kitchen table, and simply stares, watching fondly as Quentin flails the cooking spoon around as he talks, as he moves to gather plates and forks, watching his eyes light up as he warms up to the discussion and becomes even more animated. And as Eliot gazes at the boy in his kitchen, <i>their</i> kitchen, in the place they built for themselves, he just feels <i>happy</i>. The tender thoughts overwhelm him - more secret longings that he knows he won’t voice now, but someday will have the courage to - <i>I’m so glad it’s you. I would stay here for fifty years, grow old here, if it meant I got to keep you.</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>It’s finally Spring Break and all the Physical Kids are starting to clear out. Eliot has finished teaching his last class and is of a similar mind, packing his bag while Charlton lolls across the desk chair and absently snaps his fingers into flames in the corner of his bedroom. Eliot is ready for a distraction, ready for an adventure. Maybe Greece. He’s heard through the grapevine that there’s a hedge coven in Corfu that lives reclusively in the olive tree hills just outside town and specializes in experimental telekinetics. At the very least he can claim he’s on a work trip, nevermind the copious amounts of wine he intends to consume and the beaches and ancient ruins he plans to visit.</p>
<p>He’s distractedly tossing clothing from his dresser onto the bed behind him when he hears a decidedly un-sock-like thud, and an answering creak from the desk chair as Charlton stands, most likely to inspect it. When he turns around, he finds Charlton holding the bracelet from Santa, tilting it toward the window to look at the engravings.</p>
<p>“It really is quite beautiful handiwork,” Charlton mumbles, twisting the jewelry this way and that, the gold glistening as it catches the sunlight. “Lovely peach blossom design.”</p>
<p>Eliot freezes, once again feeling like something is tugging at the corner of his brain and begging to be noticed. Charlton continues on obliviously.</p>
<p>“I mean, a bit of a silly gift though. You’ve never worn this kind of thing in your life, why would Santa give you something like this? And the message was a bit bizarrely cryptic too, with all that nonsensically flowery language -”</p>
<p>“- it’s Earth poetry from the Romantic period.” Eliot unconsciously interrupts. Perhaps it’s the strange way Charlton seems to eye the bracelet warily. Maybe it’s the recollection of peaches in another context, the ache for another time. Perhaps it’s the sudden affront he feels toward the way the oddly tender words on the packing paper have just been seemingly carelessly tossed aside. <i>For when hope has flown away.</i> Well then. That settles it.</p>
<p>Eliot pointedly glares at Charlton as he grabs the bracelet and snaps it onto his wrist. The last thing he sees is a pair of wide eyes on him as he feels the ground fall from under him and his vision go dark.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>part II should be coming sometime later this week. feel free to come say hi over on tumblr (same url)! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>Whoever is responsible for this godforsaken putrid yellow faux-modern armchair should be drawn and quartered</i> is apparently Eliot’s first coherent thought when he feels fully conscious again. He’s not sure if he’s been portaled somewhere or if he’s in some sort of Harry Potter Pensieve situation (Margo <i>did</i> force him to watch the movies, after all), but the only thing he knows for certain is that he has no idea where he is. It looks like...an apartment? A fairly nice one at that. Certainly big enough and with striking enough of a city view that it could be a penthouse. As he spins in the center of the room, he realizes he’s not alone. He sees Margo, Julia, Kady, Penny, Josh, Quentin...<i>Quentin</i> -</p>
<p>“Q?” he breathes out, almost scared to ask and have the apparition disappear. “Q, oh my god, <i>Q</i>.” The words rush out as his legs suddenly move him unsteadily forward and he sinks down to one knee to be at eye level with Quentin, sitting listlessly on the couch. “Q, what’s happening? Is this real? What the <i>fuck</i> is going on? How...how are you <i>here</i>? Talk to me, <i>please</i>.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t get a response. In fact, it doesn’t even look as if Quentin even recognizes he’s there. None of them do. He looks down at his hand where it has an unconscious death grip on Quentin’s knee, and the bracelet is still there, but it won’t budge when he tries to pry it off. Clearly he’s meant to be some sort of silent bystander to whatever is about to play out.</p>
<p>He can’t help but greedily catalog everything he can about Quentin, though with each observation he grows more worried. His hair is clipped much shorter than he’s ever seen it, and he looks like he’s barely slept, deep bags under his eyes and a lost, hollowed look about him that chills him more than any depressive state ever could. He seems small, resigned to something, and Eliot desperately wants to wrap him in a hug and protect him from whatever is hurting him like this.</p>
<p>The decisive <i>snick</i> of the front door opening breaks Eliot out of his stupor, and he quickly stands, watching Alice and Kady walk through the door, the former seemingly more hesitant than the latter who barely spares a glance at the group as she traipses to the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Is it...out?” Alice asks cryptically.</p>
<p>“The Monster’s in Spain.” Eliot swivels his head at the sound of Quentin’s voice, quiet and vacant. “Said something about a festival in Barcelona that he thought one of the gods might be at. He probably won’t be back for a while.”</p>
<p>“Well thank fuck, because Quinn has an idea.” Kady marches out of the kitchen, a box of Cheerios in hand, and plops down in between Margo and Julia on the couch. “Granted, it’s a stupid idea, but it’s something.”</p>
<p>Alice ignores the comment, opening a large volume in her hands as she walks toward the center of the room, flipping through its pages.</p>
<p>“I...I found this book. It’s old Library property but no one’s ever really taken an interest in it other than for purely academic purposes because it’s a treatise on fairly incipient magical theory. It’s...old magic. Like, really old. But most magicians through the years have discounted the findings here for that very reason, so a lot of it hasn’t been tested practically to the kind of scale we need right now.”</p>
<p>“Great. Fantastic. <i>How does this help</i>.”</p>
<p>Alice glares at Penny before dropping the book open on the coffee table, pointing to a specific section on the page. “There’s this. And if it works, it could solve everything.”</p>
<p>Julia immediately slides forward to read. Margo rolls her eyes. “Just tell us what it <i>is</i> already.”</p>
<p>Alice sighs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It’s- "</p>
<p>“- Fillorian,” Julia whispers. The whole room drops silent. “How...how is that possible? No one has magic in Fillory. It looks like the Chatwins weren’t even ruling when the earliest records of this spell appeared.”</p>
<p>“Well, the history of it is rather strange. We have the original notes on the theory of the spell, though no one knows who actually came up with it. All we know is that it must have been someone with magic who was in Fillory, but the notes were passed down through a local family who ultimately got the information to Earth Magician scholars. Everything is apparently really well preserved, somewhere in the archives - like, you can even see notes in the margins from this Fillorian, um, Theodore Coldwaugh -”</p>
<p>“ - I’m sorry, <i>Coldwaugh</i>?” Margo cuts in.</p>
<p>It is at that precise moment that Quentin starts violently coughing through a sip of water.</p>
<p>“Did - did you say - Ted - um, I mean, Theodore Coldwaugh?” he manages to gasp out between coughs.</p>
<p>“What, you know this guy?”</p>
<p>Quentin ignores Penny, leaning forward to shakily pull the book into his lap, Julia still reading over his shoulder. A complicated array of emotions flit across his shocked pale face before he shakes his head, his eyes widening in comprehension and quickly taking on a fierce look of determination. “This is a dream spell. It should allow you to enter someone’s dream world and shape it without them knowing their subconscious has been infiltrated. But how - how does this help, exactly? Are we banking on being able to...what, get into the Monster’s head and just...convince him to leave? That kind of Inception on a creature that has...essentially no moral compass and its own messed up idea of logic just - it just isn’t going to work.”</p>
<p>“I agree, which is why we’re not going to do that,” Alice says calmly. She points to a section further down the page. “Scholars from the 20th century that dabbled with this spell a bit realized that you can access deeper layers of the subconscious within the dream. There’s this place - they call it the Seam - that can portal you to another dimension in the dream called limbo that’s impossible to escape from - or at least, no one wants to escape once they’re there. They say it presents you with your deepest desires.”</p>
<p>“We need to trap the Monster there.”</p>
<p>“Exactly.”</p>
<p>Everyone sits in dumb silence. “Okay,” Quentin mumbles to himself. He stands, walking toward Alice and facing the group. “Okay then, so...so here’s what we need to do. We’ll use the sleeping agents of the spell to lull the Monster to sleep. We enter his dreamscape. He’s still going to look like Eliot in there, so Margo, we’ll still need to use your axes to separate the Monster’s consciousness from Eliot’s. Then we can throw the Monster into limbo, catch Eliot up to speed, and get ourselves out of there. Either a really powerful transporter spell or a counterspell with ingredients anchoring us back to the real world should do it.”</p>
<p>“How will we know where this Seam is?”</p>
<p>Quentin stands a little taller. “I’ll be the Architect. The Monster is most familiar with me, so it will be easiest for me to design the dream world for him and for Eliot once we get him back into control.”</p>
<p>“I think there’s still one little caveat Quinn’s left out,” Kady interjects.</p>
<p>Alice sighs. “We have to be careful, of course, that the Monster doesn’t know we’re accessing his subconscious -"</p>
<p>“- A heist to de-possess Eliot from the inside? And I get to use my axes? Mama likey -”</p>
<p>“Margo, priorities please.”</p>
<p>“I mean, Jules, she’s not...wrong exactly -”</p>
<p>Alice slams the book shut and stalks over to the armchair. “Even when we get Eliot back in there, we’re still going to be under threat of attack.”</p>
<p>“But...it’s Eliot, and he trusts us...how would that be a problem?”</p>
<p>“I know, Q, but...it’s kind of like...the mind has its own immune system, you know? So if it senses any foreign mental entities it’s...going to fight back regardless. So we can’t tell Eliot what’s actually going on. It could jeopardize the entire mission. We might not make it out of there.”</p>
<p>“So, what, you’re brilliant plan is just to leave Eliot trapped in his own fucking mind because he doesn’t know he’s in a dream he needs to wake up from? Because I am sure as fuck not about to let that happen -”</p>
<p>“- Of course, no one wants that Margo,” Quentin cuts in, “and...I think there might be a loophole.” He sinks back into the couch, head in his hands for a moment before seemingly collecting his thoughts. “Maybe we can’t tell him what’s going on, but...we can show him. I’ll find some object that we can spell to hold important memories - like this one - so that when he receives it in the dreamscape, using it will trigger him to see our memories - Margo, might be best if they’re from your perspective. That way, there’s nothing suspicious about how he got the object in the first place, we don’t need to directly tell him anything, and he’ll have something to remind him...what’s real.”</p>
<p>Quentin seems to have grown more unsettled over the course of the conversation, his leg now fidgeting as he stares ahead of him at nothing in particular. He glances around nervously at the group before standing, eyeing the bedroom door. “Well, I guess we have a plan then.” He looks at Alice and they share a short look, as if seeming to come to some agreement or truce. Quentin nods and then awkwardly looks back at the group, a hand shaking as he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “I think I - I think I need to be alone for a bit. Before the Monster gets back anyway.”</p>
<p>As he’s walking away, Penny lets out an exasperated huff.</p>
<p>“Um, are we all just forgetting that this entire plan assumes that this old spell no one has ever used before is actually going to work? Literally everything you’ve just said is in theory, and i’m sorry, but I think we need something more fucking concrete for what we’re trying to pull off. Are you seriously asking me to trust the hearsay of some Coldwawa dude or whatever -”</p>
<p>“ - <i>generations</i> of <i>Coldwaughs</i> preserved this spell, clearly because they believed that it <i>mattered</i>, that it could do some <i>good</i> in the right hands.” In a matter of moments, Quentin has strode up to Penny, a strange fire in his wide eyes as he almost growls the words out. “<i>That</i> in itself shows the care and value placed in the origins of this spell. But even so, <i>no</i>, I’m not asking you to trust them. Hell, I’m not even asking you to trust Alice. I’m asking you all to <i>trust me</i>.”</p>
<p>Everyone’s staring now, seemingly shocked at the fervor and unchecked emotion in Quentin’s voice. He seems to realize himself, and suddenly starts drawing back into himself. But the conviction in his voice remains.</p>
<p>“I know this spell. The theory is sound. It’s <i>going to work</i>. And it’s the best shot we have right now of saving El.”</p>
<p>With these parting words, he stalks out of the room…</p>
<p><br/>
</p>
<p>...The scene shifts. It’s a bedroom, moments later, Quentin sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees. The door softly clicks shut as Margo enters and quietly slides down next to him.</p>
<p>“Quentin... I know there’s a lot going on right now that I haven’t been around to notice, but...you’re kind of freaking me out here.”</p>
<p>A deep, muffled sigh. “I...I’m just tired, Margo, don’t worry about me.” He tilts his head, turning hesitant eyes toward her. “But you do - you do believe me, right? That this will work?”</p>
<p>“Of course, you know I’ve always got your back.” Quentin smiles weakly, head drifting down again. “But...Q, I think there’s something more going on here. I just...if you don’t want to talk about it I get it, but...it seems important, and I just want to know how I can help you.”</p>
<p>Silence. Margo slides closer and takes a deep breath, seeming to weigh her words. “Quentin, honey...who’s...who’s Theodore Coldwaugh?”</p>
<p>Quentin doesn’t react for a moment. But then, he lifts his gaze, wide, glassy eyes searching Margo’s before he seems to find something and shakily exhales, turning to unseeingly stare ahead instead.</p>
<p>“Well, um...actually -” Quentin lets out a choked laugh - “Theodore is...Teddy’s my <i>son</i>.”</p>
<p>Margo freezes, lips parted in surprise. “Holy shit,” she whispers. “The key quest, you...you remembered it? But...but I got the key. I stopped you guys before you even went through the clock.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, um, well, you did, but I think you may have...created a paradox? I was never sure until now but this...this proves it. That it was all real - that life we lived.”</p>
<p>Margo reaches out and gently takes his hand. “And you - you had a son. You really lived a life there, huh.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, fifty years. We lived there for fifty years - grew old together trying to solve that mosaic. There was a girl, Arielle - you would have loved her - and I - we - Eliot and I, we had a son. We had a beautiful family. And we spent every day thinking of all of you, telling Teddy stories about you - but also, we were just...so <i>happy</i>.”</p>
<p>He’s trembling now, the tension he’s been carrying for so long unspooling as he leans into Margo’s side. “The Coldwaugh name, that...that was all Teddy. We were scared to use our real names and mess up the timeline but Teddy...he always said he wanted his family to carry the names of...of both his parents.”</p>
<p>For a moment, neither speaks, Margo gently stroking a thumb over Quentin’s hand, both staring in front of them, lost in thought. Margo then shifts, eyes steady on Quentin’s profile.</p>
<p>“The mosaic - I remember in the books...they said it was supposed to represent the `beauty of life’... what did it end up being? I always wondered when...when I read that bit.”</p>
<p>Quentin finally meets her gaze, eyes glistening. “It was...it was us. Just...living out our lives there. Not giving up on the quest or on each other. Loving each other through it all.”</p>
<p>“God<i>damn</i>, Coldwater, that’s got to be the most romantic shit I’ve heard in my entire life. And you’re telling me you idiots decided you just...didn’t want to be together when you came back? What the hell is that about?”</p>
<p>Quentin turns away sharply, arms wrapping tighter around his knees as his eyes dull. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he bites out. “We were different people at the mosaic. It would be ridiculous to think Eliot would choose that kind of life, choose me if he had options. That life was an anomaly. He...he made that pretty clear once we remembered-”</p>
<p>“<i>Bullshit</i>.”</p>
<p>Quentin scoffs, poorly masking a choked sob.</p>
<p>“I’m serious, Q, that’s fucking bullshit. You <i>know</i> him, Q, you know he gets scared and runs when something matters, really matters. And this? This is some soulmate-tier stuff right here.” Margo grabs for his hand and squeezes, forcing him to look back at her. “Quentin, he’s been a little bit in love with you from the moment you stumbled your way into his life. And he’s spent most of his life convinced that he doesn’t deserve what makes him happy. So when he said he wouldn’t choose you, I don’t believe that for a second. Honey, all that boy has ever done since this whole thing started with the Beast and Fillory and everything else is <i>choose you</i>.”</p>
<p>Quentin gives a tremulous smile, eyes brimming with barely restrained, almost hopeful emotion. But his expression quickly crumbles. “Margo, I - I can’t lose him. Regardless of how he feels, I can’t - I can’t just turn off these feelings and...I just miss him, <i>so much</i>. I already lost him once, I can’t lose him again, not when I can do something about it this time, I -”</p>
<p>He breaks down and fully sags into Margo’s side. Her arms slip around him, holding him tight as he rests his head on her shoulder. After a few moments, his shaking subsides, and Margo brushes a gentle hand through his hair.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to carry this alone, Q. We’re going to get him back, I swear we will do our damnedest. And when we do, I’m going to pull his head <i>so far out of his ass</i> -”</p>
<p>Quentin lets out a wet laugh, and they both slip into a more comfortable silence. He lifts his head, eyes warm as he whispers, “<i>thank you</i>.” Margo smiles back, an understanding between them.</p>
<p>“Ok. Time to start figuring out how we’re going to pull off this brain heist. And...you’re absolutely sure about this spell?”</p>
<p>A crooked smile, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Of course it’ll work. It’s <i>Eliot’s</i>.”</p>
<p><br/>
</p>
<p>...The scene swirls away, rematerializing as a hallway, a hallway in the hospital ward of Brakebills. Or at least, a close approximation of one. The shiny veneer of the memory is telling - the gang is now in the dream world.</p>
<p>“Fucking <i>Todd</i> let Everett in? He had <i>one job</i>. All he had to do was sip a mimosa and watch our bodies while we sleep, not let a psychopath in to mess up the whole damn mission. Please tell me you at least threw the Monster into limbo.”</p>
<p>“Yes, we did, and Everett got pushed in after him, but-”</p>
<p>“Great. Excellent. Now when we get back I swear to <i>God</i> I’m gonna -”</p>
<p>“Fucking <i>hell</i>, Margo, would you shut up about Todd, Quentin’s <i>gone</i>.”</p>
<p>Alice and Margo freeze, shocked out of their back-and-forth by Penny’s outburst. Margo’s stare turns icy.</p>
<p>“What do you mean <i>Quentin’s gone</i>.”</p>
<p>“Right before he was about to throw the Monster through the mirror, Everett showed up and cracked it. Quentin did some minor mending.”</p>
<p>“But I thought you couldn’t do magic in the mirror realm.”</p>
<p>“You can’t,” Alice replies softly. “But - but he did. Penny got me out of there when the dimension started collapsing but - but Q didn’t make it in time.”</p>
<p>Margo stares blankly between Alice and Penny. “But - this just means that Q left the dream earlier than the rest of us, right?”</p>
<p>“Well-”</p>
<p>“- <i>right</i>?”</p>
<p>“-Margo I literally just saw him dissolve like some sort of Avenger, so I <i>don’t know</i>.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m sorry, Penny, but <i>I don’t know</i> is <i>not</i> going to cut it, because now I have to go in there and tell Eliot that the <i>love of his life</i> is <i>dead</i> because saying anything else could <i>get us killed</i>.”</p>
<p>A chair in the hallway screeches along the floor and a Healer is suddenly razor-focused on them. Casting nervous glances at each other, Penny nods his head to the door, and they all slip outside onto the Brakebills lawn, letting out exhales of relief when no one follows.</p>
<p>“How is this going to affect the plan?” Margo asks, more subdued. “Q was the Architect of all this, but we should still be able to get out of here without him, right?”</p>
<p>“Everything should still go according to plan, the dream narrative will probably just be...a bit wilder to navigate since Q isn’t here to keep everything under control.” Alice glances back to the infirmary building before continuing. “As long as Eliot eventually gets the memory bracelet Q spelled, though, we should be good. Q said the spell we’re going to use to get out of here is - it’s about intent, so it’s important that Eliot figures out there’s a reality he needs to get back to in order for the spell to work on him.”</p>
<p>“Right. And then we just need to...hope that Q’s waiting for us when we wake up.”</p>
<p>The unspoken <i>he will be</i> hangs uneasily in the air between them.</p>
<p>The scene dissolves, the world fading to black.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>Eliot inhales sharply as he lurches forward, frantic eyes taking stock of his surroundings. He’s back in his bedroom, Charlton standing bewildered in front of him. He looks down at his arm, bare, the clasp of the bracelet having opened, presumably when the memories ended. He snatches the bracelet from the quilt and snaps it back on, eyes landing on the note with the poetry. A dream within a dream. Oh. <i>Oh</i> -</p>
<p>“- <i>Shit</i>.”</p>
<p>Cradling the note with trembling hands, he reads the message again. <i>You are not alone</i>.</p>
<p>
  <i>Quentin.</i>
</p>
<p>“Eliot, what’s going on?”</p>
<p>The question barely registers as Eliot purposefully strides out of the room, the door telekinetically flung open in his wake as he continues to stare at the note clutched in his hands and instinctively makes his way to Quentin’s room. It looks exactly as he’s always remembered, even down to the two wrinkled button downs in a pile on the floor, as if Quentin had just dropped them carelessly moments ago and could walk through the doorway at any moment. He ignores all of it, thrusting his arm out to the bookshelf in the corner, a small black book flying out and falling open onto the bed.</p>
<p>He remembers coming up to his room once in the middle of one of his and Margo’s bashes to find Quentin, still a shy fresh-faced first-year, hiding there, quietly perusing Eliot’s knickknacks and excitedly waving that very book in his hands with a surprisingly cheeky smile (<i>see, El, I knew you read books</i>). He remembers laughing it off, joking that the book of poems wasn’t his, softly adding as an afterthought <i>you can keep it, if you’d like</i>, and accidentally spending the rest of his evening just...listening to Quentin ramble.</p>
<p>And then it hits him that, in another life, Quentin knew exactly what that book meant to Eliot.</p>
<p>(<i>“You? A romantic? El, I’m pretty sure you and Margo are allergic to cheese and romance.”</i></p>
<p>
  <i>“Not true,” Eliot slurs back indignantly. They’re two years into the mosaic, both steadily getting drunker after a long day working on the puzzle, Eliot partly wondering when he can drop the pretense of conversation to drag Quentin into his arms, partly wondering if he could stay like this forever, sprawled next to him and laughing as they lazily pass the wineskin back and forth.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Please, El, you’re lying and you know it. From what I’ve heard around campus it’s not your romantic spirit that brings all the boys to the yard.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Oh my god I can’t believe I like you.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Nope, sorry, gonna have to do better than that.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Eliot sits up and turns glassy eyes to Quentin, lips quirking in a small smile. “For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Quentin gapes at him. “Did you just quote Edgar Allen Poe at me?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Q, I literally just quoted one of the most romantic poems ever written, and that’s all you have to say?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Quentin is still staring at him, a strange mix of emotions across his face that Eliot’s having trouble deciphering. He looks away, grabbing the wineskin while Quentin’s distracted, and takes a swig. “Can’t let my English degree go to waste, you know. I actually studied Edgar Allen Poe. Did a whole thesis on him. Annabel Lee’s still my favorite of his. I mean, sure, romance was never Margo’s style or mine, but as a concept...don’t we all deep down just...want someone to love us like that? I mean, come on, ‘we loved with a love that was more than love?’ How do you beat a declaration like that.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yeah,” Quentin responds quietly, his eyes turning soft. “You really can’t.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>They simply stare at each other for a moment before Quentin’s expression morphs into an easy smile, eyes closing as he goes to lie down on the blanket. “You know, quoting a really famous poem doesn’t exactly prove anything.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Ok Mr. I-majored-in-philosophy-and-therefore-have-superior-opinions-on-romance, I can go more niche, if you’d like?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Hey now, that’s just rude -”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>In an instant, Eliot has rolled so that he’s half on top of Quentin, lowering his elbows down on either side of his head, and Quentin’s words trail off forgotten into the night.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“All things by a law divine in one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Seriously, El?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Eliot ignores the protest, barely credible given the delightful pink blossoming across his cheeks under the torch light as his eyes dart over Eliot’s face. Eliot grins, inching his head down until their noses are almost brushing, voice deepening, the weight of his hips pressing Quentin further into the quilt.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“The sunlight clasps the earth and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what is all this sweet work worth... if thou kiss not me?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The final words drift into the cool night air, more earnestly sincere than originally planned.</i>
</p>
<p><i>Quentin’s eyes widen, and he lets out a short incredulous laugh in the scant space between their lips. “Okay, okay, fine, you win. You are absolutely impossible, El,” he whispers, his hands suddenly coming up to fist in Eliot’s curls and pull his head down as he surges up the final inches into a firm kiss, a toe-curling kiss he can’t help but immediately melt into, a kiss that feels almost like an I love you...</i>)</p>
<p>
  <i>“Eliot.”</i>
</p>
<p>Eliot is ripped from the memory. He whips around to find Charlton standing in the doorway, staring in confusion. He shakes his head and turns back to the bed, to the open book with a noticeably ripped-out page. He glances at the paper in his hands, worn from the number of times he’s folded and unfolded it in the past weeks.</p>
<p>It’s a perfect match.</p>
<p>“Shit.”</p>
<p>“Seriously, Eliot, what -”</p>
<p>“- I fucked up. Oh my god <i>I fucked up</i>.”</p>
<p>“I mean, yeah, I could have told you that when you decided to put that sketchy bracelet on and black out -”</p>
<p>“<i>No</i>, Charlton, I should have done that weeks ago when I got the damn thing in the first place. Instead my friends did the spell on the world seed and I...I didn’t make the jump with them because I just... didn’t realize that I needed the kick? How was I so fucking <i>stupid</i>.”</p>
<p>“The kick? I don’t -”</p>
<p>“<i>None of this is real, Charlton.</i>” </p>
<p>He distantly notices the music that had been humming from downstairs come to an abrupt halt.</p>
<p>“Hell, neither are you, which should have been obvious from the <i>start, Jesus</i>.” He scoffs. “All this time I thought I was free. Turns out I was just stuck in another mind palace <i>of my own fucking choosing</i>.”</p>
<p>Something seems to shift across Charlton’s demeanor before quickly slipping behind a mask of innocent indifference. But not fast enough. </p>
<p>“Eliot, please, this is a bit ridiculous. This is real. <i>I’m real</i>. Your friends are in New Fillory, and you’re at Brakebills. Besides, in what world would you voluntarily dream up Dean Fogg? Look, I know you’re grieving for Quentin, but -”</p>
<p>“- but that’s exactly it!”</p>
<p>He stalks toward Charlton, bringing the note fisted in his hand up to his face. “This could only have been sent by someone who knows me. Whoever sent this knew that I would recognize these words, knew how...how important and meaningful these words were to me.” He glances at an underlined passage again. <i>He lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me</i>. Hope suddenly flickers to life in his chest.</p>
<p>“This has to be Quentin. The only thing I am certain of in this shit world is that Quentin somehow loved me, for fifty years, without expecting anything in return. He loved me enough to ask me to do it with him all over again, and I think...oh god I think he’s trying to tell me he...he <i>still</i> loves me.”</p>
<p>“<i>Or</i> maybe that’s exactly what the person who sent you this wants you to think, what he knows <i>you</i> will want to hear, and it’s a trap. Are you really going to give all this up, everything you’ve worked for, just for some hallucination?”</p>
<p>“Why is it so hard to believe that <i>this</i> isn’t the hallucination? If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past years, it’s that we would be arrogant to think we’re the only world, only timeline existing in parallel. What makes this any different?”</p>
<p>He does a series of tuts and places his fingers in a square, looking through the spell window. The slight shimmer throughout the room is the final confirmation he needs. Wordlessly, he begins telekinetically gathering the ingredients he’ll need for the counterspell.</p>
<p>“Eliot, come on, you don’t even know that this spell will work, are you really going to just jump into this without any serious thought? For all you know you could be jumping in front of a train, and for what, the possibility that there’s some other imaginary reality waiting for you?”</p>
<p>“No, Charlton, for a chance at living!” Eliot slams a box of colored chalk to the ground as he glares at Charlton before kneeling to draw the chalk circle with a broken bit of blue chalk. Quentin always did like the blue tiles. He lets the sketching calm him for a few moments.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how else to say this, Eliot, but this right here? This is reality. This is the tangible truth around you, and has never suggested otherwise. The best thing you can do for yourself is learn to live in it.”</p>
<p>“Truth is all about perception, Charlton. We see what we’re told to see and even, sometimes, what we want to see. And, sure I could probably stay here, grow old here, but...but this isn’t really living. I don’t want to settle for this when I know I have a real shot at happiness, at a real life with my family.”</p>
<p>He stands, and carefully places ingredients in their spots around the circle. The book of poems. The note from Quentin. And finally, with some reluctance, the etched bracelet. Evidence of the life he’s fighting to return to, the anchor to his world, to Quentin. Satisfied that everything is in order, he walks to the center of the circle, looking up at Charlton one more time.</p>
<p>“Sure, it’s a leap of faith. God knows I’ve been a coward when it comes to those, but that’s the beauty of living, isn’t it? Knowing that it could all get fucked up...hell, not even knowing at all what could happen, and taking that chance anyway because it could just as easily go right. And I - I want to <i>live</i>.”</p>
<p>He begins forming the tuts, the intricate hand shapes coming to him like muscle memory, as easily as they did that lifetime ago at the mosaic when he would spend hours practicing and writing while Quentin recorded patterns next to him in the evening.</p>
<p><i>Quentin</i>. He can’t even be sure that Quentin will be alive if he makes it out of here. But he has to try.</p>
<p>Charlton’s eyes bore into his, almost as if daring him to complete the final tuts and leave him behind. For the first time there’s a bite to his voice, and Eliot knows that this isn’t entirely the Charlton he knows. “Since when have you ever been the brave hero type?”</p>
<p>He simply smiles. “If I’m braver, it’s because I learned it from Q.”</p>
<p>In a flash, it looks like Charlton is about to attempt some poorly conceived battle magic - yup, definitely a projection of his mind trying to attack his rebellion - but the spell suddenly takes effect, the force of it slamming Charlton across the room. </p>
<p>The air turns almost golden around Eliot as it lifts the ingredients and swirls through them. The spell’s strong, much more powerful than he remembers, and he feels himself slip toward unconsciousness, something tugging at his gut as if he’s about to travel. He channels as much emotion as he can into this bond seeming to tether him to some point beyond his grasp. He thinks of his family of friends waiting for him on the other side. He thinks of Margo. He thinks of Quentin.</p>
<p><i>We loved with a love that was more than love</i>. He hopes it’s enough.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----------------------------------------------------</p>
</div><p>He’s still in the Physical Cottage when he groggily blinks his eyes open. But as his vision swims into focus, he dares to hope he is no longer dreaming. Standing on the opposite side of the Cottage living room is Quentin. <i>Quentin is alive</i>.</p>
<p>Margo and Alice are standing with him, everyone else seeming to have already cleared out of the room. They’re silent, and he realizes they’re all staring at a paper in Quentin’s hands, Alice’s eyes wide in disbelief. None of them have noticed him yet. </p>
<p>“Alice, I...what is this? How do I have this?” Quentin is frozen in place, eyes frantically skipping across the page, hands trembling more as he continues to read. Eliot almost speaks, before the words die in his throat.</p>
<p>A familiar stamp peeks out from the back of the page.</p>
<p>“It...it worked.”</p>
<p>“Wait, Alice, you...you know about this?”</p>
<p>“Eliot, he...he wanted to mail this letter after you...well, after you died in there, but he was scared he would make things worse by sending it, we never thought you would actually get it.”</p>
<p>“This was already in my pocket before Ieft, but I didn’t look at it because I thought it was just some note paper and not...not <i>this</i>. It’s addressed to me before I went to the Seam in the dream world, I don’t - I don’t understand.”</p>
<p>Alice’s eyes widen in realization. “The spell on the stamp - it must have still worked but been calibrated to the timescale out in the real world rather than dream time, so the best it could do in reaching you before the Seam was...to send it to before you even entered the dream.”</p>
<p>Quentin suddenly freezes as he arrives at the final lines. “He...he - oh my god.” Tears are welling up in his eyes, his thumb absently tracing the signature at the bottom as he looks away from the page for the first time, a disbelieving yet heartbreakingly hopeful expression on his face as a silent conversation passes between him and Margo. He’s clutching the letter in trembling hands, like if it slips he’ll lose something important, like holding on as hard as he can is what could keep Eliot alive. And in a way, Eliot thinks, he’s not quite far off. It feels like Quentin is holding onto the most vulnerable hidden parts of his heart in his hand. He feels suspended between the before and after of the letter, his heart in the balance and in his throat as he holds his breath and watches Quentin process what he’s read.</p>
<p>“I have to go back in there.”</p>
<p>“Q, honey, I say this in the nicest way possible, but what the fuck.”</p>
<p>“No, Margo, I need to get him out of there.”</p>
<p>He takes a step toward the chalk circle where Eliot lies, but Margo firmly grips his arm and holds him back.</p>
<p>“Quentin, you have gone on enough self-sacrifice trips already on this mission, and you are in absolutely no state to be going back in there-”</p>
<p>“But <i>he thinks I’m dead!</i> And he thinks that I - that I don’t love him.”</p>
<p>His head bows as he grabs Margo’s arm for support, his eyes squeezing shut before looking back up, his face crumbling.</p>
<p>“Margo, he still hasn’t woken up.” His voice is devastatingly quiet. “Margo, why hasn’t he woken up, this was supposed to work. He said - he said he was fighting to come back to me, <i>why isn’t he here?"</i></p>
<p>“Honey, I don’t know.” Margo places a soothing hand on his shoulder, gently stroking. “We gave him the bracelet before we left, it’s up to him now to choose to get out.”</p>
<p>“What if it didn’t work?” Quentin is visibly fighting back tears, and growing more and more agitated. “Margo, what if it doesn’t work and he doesn’t wake up? He has to wake up, I can’t -” a soft sob slips out. “I thought when he saw the bracelet and the message he would know...that it meant - that it meant I -”</p>
<p>“-peaches and plums, motherfucker.”</p>
<p>All three of them whip around at Eliot’s words, but Eliot only has eyes for Quentin, red-eyed, frazzled, shocked, <i>beautiful</i> Quentin. Time seems suspended as they all stare frozen at each other.</p>
<p>“Took you long enough you bastard,” Margo mumbles, but Eliot barely notices - Quentin has suddenly lurched forward into a whirlwind of motion, tripping his way into the chalk circle and stumbling to his knees next to Eliot on the floor.</p>
<p><i>Still as clumsy as ever</i>, Eliot thinks fondly. He wants to say more, but the words are stuck in his throat, even as they fight to slip out. <i>I love you</i>.</p>
<p>Quentin is within arms reach now, but he hesitates in crossing the final distance. He seems momentarily on guard, and Eliot could kick himself, because only now does he remember that he’s still wearing the Monster’s clothes (and <i>jesus christ</i> is that <i>dried yogurt</i> on this sweater <i>god</i> he needs a cleanse). He tries to silently convey all the mess of his feelings as he gazes at Quentin, the trust and joy and gratitude and hope and love. <i>I love you</i>.</p>
<p>And something must click because Quentin’s eyes widen, fresh tears welling as he lifts a trembling hand to his cheek, a familiar warm hand slotting into place, the rightness of it overwhelming Eliot. <i>I love you</i>.</p>
<p>He can’t help but sink into the gentle caress, eyes drooping in relief before looking back at Quentin, who lets out a happy wet sob.</p>
<p>“<i>Oh</i>. It’s really you.”</p>
<p>“It’s me,” Eliot whispers back. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was a bitch.”</p>
<p>And oh, how he’s missed this, his favorite Quentin laugh, the one that is inevitable when Eliot has said something with particularly exasperating levity, the one where his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunches ever so slightly and he’s grinning, eyes shining with fondness. <i>I love you</i>.</p>
<p>Eliot lifts his own shaky hand up, sweeping locks of Quentin’s hair back before gently stroking a thumb under his eyes. A part of him remains frozen in doubt, the irrational fear creeping that Quentin will disappear if he lets go, that he’ll be alone again.</p>
<p>“This...this is real, isn’t it?” he whispers tentatively, eyes searching Quentin’s. “I’m not...hallucinating anymore?”</p>
<p>Quentin’s expression melts, an eyebrow quirking in attempted humor, though his words end up utterly sentimental and sincere.</p>
<p>“If you were, how would asking me help?”</p>
<p>Eliot grins as he hears his own words back, a helpless, choked-off laugh slipping out as he gazes at Quentin and his proud smirk. <i>I love you. I love you I love you I -</i></p>
<p>“Also, I love you too, you <i>asshole</i>.”</p>
<p>He thinks for a moment that he’s accidentally spoken the mantra in his head out loud, but then his sluggish brain catches up with the words and - oh. <i>Oh</i>.</p>
<p>He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Quentin’s eyes turn impossibly soft and he gently thumbs across Eliot’s cheeks to catch tears. God, they’re a mess, the two of them, but Eliot’s never felt more content.</p>
<p>“I wanted to be the one to say it first,” he admits in a whisper. “You deserve that much, you deserve so much more -”</p>
<p>Quentin shushes him, a small smile as he cradles Eliot’s face in both hands. “It’s not about what you or I deserve. I don’t care about any of that. I love you. That’s the truth, and that’s all that matters.”</p>
<p>“And I love you.”</p>
<p>It feels pointless now for there to be any space left between them. Quentin seems of a like mind, guiding him forward until their lips meet, tentatively, then more deeply. Quentin hums into the kiss, one hand curling around his jaw and up into his tangled hair, the other gliding from his arm, across his shoulder, down to gently rest on his chest, over his heartbeat.</p>
<p>The tenderness of the gesture has Eliot gasping, a hand pressing over Quentin’s as he falls blissfully into the kiss.</p>
<p>He’s no longer thinking about the past, or about what he deserves. All he can think about is Quentin. How he gets to finally hold him. How he gets to make plans with him. How he gets the chance to love him all over again.</p>
<p>He knows soon he will have to pick himself up off the floor and face the others. He knows they’ll probably have to deal with the Library and Everett and magic. He knows there’s more to be said between Quentin and him, that they will need time to recover and build what they almost lost.</p>
<p>But none of that matters in the moment. They are <i>together</i>. </p>
<p><i>And they have time</i>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading my little Inception-inspired fic! I've been wanting to write something for the Magicians for so long, but was never really inspired until watching this movie for the first time a few weeks ago. Surprised and very glad no one has done this twist before!</p>
<p>Poem excerpts are from (in order) <i>A Dream Within a Dream</i> and <i>Annabel Lee</i> by Edgar Allen Poe, and <i>Love's Philosophy</i> by Percy Shelley.</p>
<p> Let me know what you think in the comments, or come say hi on tumblr (also inakingdombythesilversea)! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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